We Do Not Stay Dead for Long
by LittleGingerBiscuit
Summary: "Do you remember when we met, Sixsmith? I could hardly blame you if it slipped your memory – it was not the most romantic of beginnings. Then again, whoever said a great love story must have a great start?" The dealings of Robert Frobisher and Rufus Sixsmith as they uncover one another in 2013, after waiting 77 years apart.
1. Chapter 1

_My dearest Sixsmith, _

_I do hope you've read all the letters I've sent you since last month. While I fear the news of my involvement with Jacosta may have sparked some feelings of jealousy in you, if I know you at all I am sure you forgive me. You haven't responded in quite a while, and if I wasn't so confident of your affection for me then I know I would be burdened with more concern. I can assure you now that I am no longer acquainted with her in the same way as I have before detailed – it seems that my infatuations have diverted yet again to grasp the attention of her husband, the man to which I shall most likely owe the entirety of my life's success. _

_Though I must confess, my darling, that there is always a missing piece in the complex puzzle of my affairs. It doesn't seem to matter who I wish to take as my own, or who I become fixated upon; it can never be as satisfying as the first time I felt the tug of another person affecting me so immensely._

_Do you remember when we met, Sixsmith? I could hardly blame you if it slipped your memory – it was not the most romantic of beginnings. Then again, whoever said a great love story must have a great start? Some of the most intriguing love stories in history have began in places far less grand than a small pub in Cambridge. _

_I do regret being so influenced that night. It means that my earliest memories I can recount of you are blurred and distorted, when really I should be able to find much more pleasant ways of remembering you. Your kind words to me when I stumbled drunkenly in to that road will stick with me for as long as a live. It sounds awfully childish to claim you saved my life, though I hate to think what would have happened had you not drawn me away from the front of that car. _

_Our meeting wasn't perfect, Sixsmith, as many meetings aren't. Fist impressions are such terribly important things to some people, and the pressure placed upon getting them right is unbearable. If I spent half the time trying to drag myself from that intoxicated stupor, I would have had fewer precious minutes to make up my mind to see you again._

_And I am so dearly glad I made the right judgement. Strong memories burn in to my mind like a cattle brand on flesh, making a home in which they will keep well as my body and intellect ages. Some are too important to be forgotten, and even as I sit alone to write this letter I can almost taste the salt air rolling in off the warm sea as we sat along the Corsican coastline. It was evening, and the darkness did little to dim the beauty I saw before me as I looked at you properly for the first time. I'm sure you caught me staring but you were a gentlemen not to mention it. _

_Whether religion is true and whether I will pass on from this blessed life to be met with another, one thing will remain the same – all others will be dull by comparison. I shall wait for you if you shall wait for me, Sixsmith, and it is for this reason that I believe we will always find each other. And when we do, my life will again have meaning. _

_Yours, forever, _

_R.F _


	2. Chapter 2

"Good morning, Mr Selwood. How are you today?" The therapist leaned forward in her chair, exposing an alarming amount of cleavage that would have enticed a man more lenient towards the female persuasion. "You were a little late for your appointment, I hope there's nothing wrong. Trouble at home?"

Richard sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. "Not at home, no. It's surprisingly difficult to get in to trouble when you're the only person living in a house." He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. "There was a delay on the tube, circle line was closed."

The therapist narrowed her eyes and gave him a slow nod. "I see. You did have breakfast today, didn't you? Only I know you sometimes prefer not to, and I'll remind you again that it's awfully unbeneficial to your health…"

Casting his eyes to the ceiling, Richard combed his blonde hair back from his forehead. "You seem to be under the impression that I'm on a self-destructive spiralling path. You do know I was referred to you because my friends were concerned I'm overworking myself to the point of stress? Not because they're concerned I'm…"

"You're…?"

Richard swallowed a lump in his throat and frowned. "Suicidal." He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, one hand subconsciously gripping the plastic seat hard enough to turn his knuckles a deathly white.

It seemed as if this was a massive development for him, as the therapist leaned further forward like a spectator in a theatre and wrenched the cover of her notepad open, pen poised to scrawl down everything he said from that point onward. "Is suicide a particularly sensitive topic to you, Mr Selwood?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Is it not a sensitive subject to everyone?"

The disapproving sigh from the therapist told him instantly that he'd given the wrong answer. "You're twenty-nine, Mr Selwood, there must be some reason for your reaction to the mention of…that word."

Richard's forehead creased in to a frown, and he stared at his knees. He plucked at a loose thread on his trousers and tried to keep his hands from trembling too conspicuously. "Someone…I knew someone who…"

The hungry look was back on the therapist's face. "Oh? Let's talk about that – who was it, what did they mean to you? You must learn to open up about these things, you know, Mr Selwood."

Shaking his head, Richard sighed. "I…I can't."

"Nonsense," the therapist snapped. "You're a grown man, you come here for help and yet you refuse to comply with my suggestions to make it easier for me. You can't expect these issues to go away by simply repressing them…"

"I CAN'T," Richard repeated slowly, as if speaking to a very young child. "I can't. Not because I don't want to, not because I've /repressed/ it…I just can't remember."

The therapist scoffed. "Can't remember," she scoffed. "Of course you can remember, man, you don't have that many years under your belt. Your memory is nowhere near on its way out just yet."

Richard thought for a moment, trying his hardest to dig through his mind to get more information on why the word had affected him so, why he felt he was connected with it. "No," he said eventually, head shaking firmly. "No, it's impossible, I'm sorry. I don't remember a name or a face, just the feeling."

"The feeling?"

He nodded. "Losing someone you care about and knowing for sure it shouldn't have happened. Knowing they had more time left. Knowing…they could have spent that time with you…"

Across the room, a clock beeped to signal the end of the session. "We'll have to leave it there," said the therapist, sounding both relieved and reluctant at the same time.

Richard stood up sharply from his chair, grabbing his scarf and winding it round his neck before tugging on his jacket.

"I have a little homework assignment for you," she continued, leaning back in her chair and finally adjusting her shirtfront. "I'd like you to go home and spend a while thinking about our session today. In particular, I'd like you to try and remember the name of the person you mentioned. Or at least some distinguishing facial features."

Swallowing hard, Richard gave her a noncommittal nod. "I'll do what I can," he muttered, knowing full well that it was a lie as he pushed open the door and strode out with his hands in his pockets.


	3. Chapter 3

Richard wasn't alone when he arrived back at his flat after the therapy session. He knew as soon as he walked in the door that his neighbour was back from her weekly visit to Camden market, he could tell from the muffled sounds coming from behind the closed door of her apartment on the bottom floor.

"Luisa?" he called, walking over and tapping his knuckles on the door as he unwound his scarf. "Luisa, are you in there?"

The door opened so fast that he almost fell through mid-knock in to the empty space. Standing just on the threshold of the door was Miss Luisa Rey, American, 63 years old, who'd apparently moved in to the building when she was just 24 following an ordeal she flatly refused to talk about. Currently she was dressed in her walking-about clothes, which consisted of a turtleneck jumper and a loose pair of trousers.

Richard smiled at her and offered over a handful of letters. "I picked them up from the box for you. A few cards in there – happy birthday, by the way. I promise I didn't forget." He leaned forward and gave her a little kiss on the cheek.

Luisa smiled and let out a chuckle, accepting the letters only to toss them over her shoulder. "I've been out, I don't want to sit down and start reading. Market was busy today, you know."

"Yeah, I can imagine, middle of the day and everythi…what are you listening to?" Richard frowned and braced one hand on the doorframe, leaning in to her flat to try and get a better earful of the music that drifted out in to the hallway. Luisa's flat always smelled like fresh coffee and old books.

The old woman batted his head with a flat square of cardboard, shooing him away from the door. "None of your business, young man," she chided. Still, she displayed the card for him to get a look at. "It's a record, I've had it for ages. Picked it up when I was back in the states, I forgot to return it."

Richard accepted the record cover and brushed a hand over it to clear away some of the dust, coughing as a cloud flew up in his face. "What's it called? The writing's too faded to read properly."

Luisa rolled her eyes. "Cloud Atlas Sextet. Best damn piece of music I ever heard." She took the record cover back and tucked it on to a shelf that was just out of sight behind the door. "Pretty long one, too. Keeps me going about half an hour."

Nodding, Richard leaned an arm on the wall and listened intently for a few seconds. "It's beautiful," he murmured absently. "Honestly, it's gorgeous. But I swear I've heard it before, not for a long time, but…I have."

Again, Luisa chuckled throatily. "Don't pay much mind to that feeling, Richard. Same way I felt when I first heard it, doesn't mean anything. Sorry." She folded her arms across her chest and shifted her weight to her other hip. "You busy?"

Snapping back to himself, Richard cleared his throat and shook his head.

"Still going to see that ridiculous therapist?"

Richard shook his head again. "I've been today, but…that's definitely the last time. You were completely right about her, she's insane. I swear, if she tells me one more time that I'm suppressing some sort of painful memory, I won't be able to stop myself from ripping her office to shreds."

Luisa smirked, and after a moment she started giggling. Richard was quick to follow, and soon the two of them were shaking with fits of uncontrollable laughter.

Sighing, Luisa wiped a tear from her eye and grinned. "Well if you've got some time on your hands, I've got a job for you to do." She turned on her heel and shuffled back in to her flat for a while, leaving the door gaping open behind her.

Richard risked a peek inside while she was gone. From his position in the doorway he could see walls crowded with notes and letters, newspaper clippings and old black-and-white photographs. It was clear to see that some of them were photocopies, and there were a few bits of paper that had simply been scrawled on in pencil. It looked like the booth of a police investigator in Scotland Yard, or a journalist on the lead of some new story.

Out of nowhere, Luisa came back, using her tiny body to bustle him out of the flat and back in to the hallway. She had a slip of paper in her hand, which she pressed to his chest until he raised his hand to catch it. "Doctors have got me on some stupid medication for my cough," she told him. "But the pharmacy is all the way up in Edinburgh, I need you to go and pick it up for me."

Richard looked down at the prescription and sighed. "Really? You want me to go in to a different country just to pick up some medicine you probably won't even take?"

Luisa gave him a firm nod, and he couldn't help but smile fondly at her.

"Alright. There's this big house up there that's just been opened to the public, used to be the home of some famous music composer. 'Ayrs', or something like that. Seems interesting, might as well make a holiday out of it."

The older woman nodded and patted his shoulder. "Whatever gets you out of the city, Richard. I just need those pills by next Monday, so keep that in mind and don't go too crazy." She winked.

Richard smirked and shook his head. "Will do. Oh, before I go, do you have that book you were talking about lending me? Might give me something to do on the train up to Scotland."

"Hm? Oh, yeah, I remember. Come on in, I'll grab it for you." Luisa ran her eyes up and down his form, narrowed suspiciously, before opening the door wide enough for him to step through. "Keep your hands to yourself, though, yeah?"

Richard nodded, giving her a solemn glance to show he was sincere but looking at her a little concernedly when she turned her back. He followed her in to the flat and waited patiently in the chaotic living room while she navigated her way to the bedroom to find the book.

Left alone, Richard quickly ran over to one of the decorated walls and let his eyes roam over the various papers, trying to take in as much information as possible. They all seemed very morbid – 'Hotel Room Murder' or 'Curious Copycat Suicide of Megan Sixsmith'. He shook his head and sighed, wondering – not for the first time – if perhaps Luisa was better off in a home. Then again, he'd heard some weird things about retirement homes, and he wasn't completely sure he trusted them.

As he heard Luisa's footsteps shuffling back down the corridor towards him, he quickly reached out and grabbed one of the papers at random, stuffing it in to his coat pocket before she had a chance to see. He turned around just as she rounded the corner in to the room, and smiled warmly.

"Hey, thanks," he said, walking over and hastily taking the leather-bound book from him. It was an old Wilkie Collins copy of The Woman In White, nothing special, but he'd been meaning to read more classics ever since his niece had outsmarted him on basic literature trivia at their last family gathering. Richard tucked the book under his arm and gave Luisa a little playful salute, heading out of the apartment door before she had a chance to stop him.


	4. Chapter 4

The train journey up to Edinburgh was, as predicted, a slow one. Richard found a carriage all to himself as the train set off, so he was able to settle down with his book and a styrofoam cup of tea from Costa without having to worry about other people disturbing him. He'd chosen a good time to travel – midday on a Wednesday when most people would be in work. Nice and quiet.

However, quiet could soon prove to be boring. Usually, when he was on a journey on a train or bus, if he got bored of reading he'd spend some time listening to the conversations that were going on around him. Sometimes he could actually pick up on some good things, like arguments between couples or personal confessions between friends. Other times he'd just pick up on dull things like constant weather reports from one elderly woman to another as they chewed on toffee and completed newspaper crosswords.

But today he'd been stupid and chosen to sit by himself, meaning he was alone with his book and whatever he could find in his coat pockets to amuse himself. He'd taken the jacket off and left it on the empty seat beside him, but now he closed the book and started to dig around inside the folds of material for something – anything – to do.

At first he found very little. A pen that had exploded and leaked all over a pack of Kleenex tissues. A few pennies that were stuck together with the resulting splatters of ink. The mercifully clean prescription slip Luisa had given him.

He checked his other pocket, praying that there would be something interesting in there. He almost gave up hope when all he could feel was the wrapper of the cereal bar he'd packed himself for breakfast that morning, but then the tips of his fingers brushed something rough and thin, and he paused.

What on Earth was that?

Curling his hand around the unidentified object, he pulled it out of the abyss of his pocket and frowned. Upon closer inspection under the train lights, he could see it was the paper he'd stolen from Luisa's flat just before he left the previous day. He still didn't know what it was; he'd completely forgotten about it when he got home and neglected to look at it since.

Now, he carefully unfolded the sheet of yellowed paper and smoothed it out on the table in front of him. The writing was faded, as it had been on the record cover Luisa had shown him, but as it was clearly handwritten in ink, it was fairly easy to read.

'_My dearest Sixsmith…'_

Sixsmith. He'd seen that name before, on the newspaper clippings that decorated the wall of Luisa's flat. Were the two people connected? The letter seemed so much older than all those newspapers, it made him wonder whether it was simply a coincidence.

'I do hope you've read all the letters I've sent you since last month…'

Well, Richard supposed that would explain all the other papers littered around the place in that crowded flat. Strangely interested and finding himself unable to stop reading, he rested his elbows on the table and made himself comfortable in preparation to finish the letter. It had only taken two lines, but he was immediately curious. He knew no good would come of it, since there was no possible way of getting back in to Luisa's flat to pick up the other letters, but he knew it would be too hard for him to simply stop reading now and put the paper back.

'While I fear the news of my involvement with Jocasta may have sparked some feelings of jealousy in you, if I know you at all I am sure you forgive me.'

Richard was more than prepared to read ahead until there was just no more left to read, but it was at that moment that the voice of the driver crackled over the loudspeaker on the train, declaring, "The next stop is Edinburgh station – this is the end of the line."

Sighing, Richard tucked the letter back in to his pocket and gathered up his things, standing up to vacate the train as it pulled to a gentle stop alongside the platform.


	5. Chapter 5

If the train journey to Edinburgh had been bad, Richard couldn't say anything for his accommodation once he actually arrived. He hadn't thought to plan ahead and actually book a place to stay, so once he'd taken a bus in to the heart of the city he'd had to get creative with house-hunting.

He had enough money on him to pay for a cheap room for just four nights, and on Monday morning he'd travel back home in order to get Luisa her pills in time. However, as he discovered upon his arrival, there was no such thing as cheap living space in Edinburgh.

So it came to be that he ended up in the damp entrance hall of a small Bed&Breakfast establishment, watching a spider a spin a web in the corner of two ceiling beams as he waited for the man behind the desk to sort out his registration book. It really was a dismal place, very grey and with minimal decoration. The plaque outside boasted its 'charm' and 'history', which really meant it was left standing after the second world war. However, the plaque outside also boasted its cheap nightly rates, so Richard had no choice but to put up with it.

The man behind the front desk matched the interior perfectly. He was short and portly, and dressed as if he really were from the 1930's in a full waistcoat-and-jacket deal. What was worst, perhaps, was his beard – it was grey and wiry and looked for all the world as if it could have things inhabiting it. Living things, like bugs and lice.

"Here we are, Mr Selwood," the man eventually said, turning round and sliding him a freezing brass key. It looked as if he'd just brushed some cobwebs off it, making Richard wonder yet again what the state of the room would be. Surely it couldn't be too bad, could it? Surely the country's accommodation services would have come to check it out if it was that unfit for living? He didn't dare think about it in too much detail.

"Thanks." Richard signed his name in the register book, trying not to think too much about the implications of having his name associated with that place. He accepted the key and headed up the creaking wooden staircase, dragging his bags along behind him. For some reason, he felt the urge to run, to get up to his top floor room quickly and not waste time ambling up like he had all the time in the world. Maybe it was just the way every one of his footsteps seemed to resound through the stairwell like an explosion of gunpowder.

The first thing he did upon arriving in his room was close and lock the door behind him. He felt uneasy sleeping in the building as it was, but he'd feel marginally better if he could close himself in and not risk the strange man from downstairs walking in on him.

His room was in total chaos, there was no point in trying to sugarcoat it. Everything about the place made him want to jump out the window and sleep down in the street. Since the building was arranged much like a normal townhouse, he had the entire top floor to himself, meaning he had a number of rooms to explore and discover.

First came the bedroom. It was awful, just a metal bedstead with a thin mattress that looked more like a torture device than a place to sleep – with all the springs protruding from the smudged sheets, it would be a miracle if he left Edinburgh on Monday without a decent amount of bruises. Not only that, but there was a nightstand upon which somebody had left a battered copy of the ridiculous bestseller 'Knuckle Sandwich'. That would have to go under the bed if he was to get any sleep at all that night.

Next came the tiny living area. It was very simple, and consisted mainly of a writing desk and a brittle wooden chair that he wouldn't trust to hold anyone's weight, at least not any more. It looked like it could have been considered old even in the 30's. And the desk itself wasn't much of an improvement, barely big enough to use for writing on paper larger than A3 size. On one corner of the dark wood there was a stain in the shape of a circle, like someone had put down a plate and it had been left there for such a long time that it had indented in to the desk material.

Sighing, Richard gave up with his examination of the desk and decided to take a bath before heading out to pick up Luisa's pills and find somewhere to eat. The journey had been long and the train had been uncomfortably warm, so he figured he should clean himself up if he was going out.

Though the bathroom was in a similar state of disuse as the rest of the floor, Richard was beyond the point of caring. The taps screeched as he turned them to fill the tub with hot water, and he went to retrieve the bottle of shower gel he'd packed with him in his bag. He thanked every higher power he could think of that he'd thought to bring his own towel, as there was not a single one in sight in the bathroom.

When the bath was about halfway full, he turned the taps off and stripped himself of his clothes, folding them on top of the closed toilet seat. Richard tested the temperature of the water with his hand before stepping in – it was boiling down one end of the bath and freezing down the other, so he mixed it around quickly – then sank down so he was sitting half-submerged underwater.

Well, that was uncomfortable.

He couldn't say he'd had a worse bath. There was nothing for him to clean himself with, no sponges or cloths, so he resorted to scrubbing his arms and shoulders with his bare hands to rid himself of the sticky, been-sat-still-for-too-long feeling.

After a while he gave up and simply leaned back against the edge of the bath tub, frowning when a shiver ran down his spine. It was strange, like a tremor shot along his back and jolted him upright so the water ran in droplets down his body. What the hell? He twisted around to check behind him, wondering if perhaps some sort of bug or insect had crawled down his neck and tickled him in to shivering. Except nothing was there – he was alone in the bathroom, still half-sunken in the water.

And to make things worse, to make things even more perplexing, it was the same tugging feeling of loss and regret he'd felt when the therapist was pestering him about suicide.

Too scared to continue bathing, Richard rinsed himself of all the soap suds on his skin and stepped out of the tub, wrapping himself in his towel like it was some sort of shock blanket. He didn't even want to dip his hand in the water to pull the plug out, so he simply left it there in the hope that someone would come to maintenance the room now somebody was staying in it.

He didn't know how he was going to shower or bathe for the next four days he was staying there, because if one thing was certain, it was that he wasn't getting back in that bathtub to save his life.


End file.
